


Break My Step And Relent

by geordielover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, John Watson Is Kind Of BAMF, M/M, OMC - Freeform, Sherlock Is Emotionally Constipated, The Author Is Shit At Tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geordielover/pseuds/geordielover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kidnapper looks completely startled, staring up at John with wild eyes. John understands; he’s a small man, himself, and while some would consider that to be a hindrance in a fight, John thinks of it as a tactical advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break My Step And Relent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catastrophicmeltdown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophicmeltdown/gifts).



> Written for the johnlockchallenges gif exchange over on tumblr. For catastrophicmeltdown, who asked for: _"I would like something where John’s BAMF!ness comes out. Perhaps it happens during a case, or during an ordinary day that spiralled out of control, and someone/people realise that John’s more than what he seems. A happy bonus would be if Sherlock’s all proud and possessive at the end (i.e. “Yeah, that’s myJohn.”)."_
> 
> I sort of took that idea and ran with it...hopefully this is relatively what you wanted!

As a former soldier in Her Majesty’s Army, John Watson is no stranger to perilous situations. He’s got the decorations, the medals, the scars, and the nightmares to prove it. His shoulder hasn’t been the same since he took a through-and-through in Afghanistan, his leg hasn’t been the same since his re-insertion to London, and his psyche hasn’t been the same since he watched his best friend tumble six stories to his alleged death. 

Sherlock Holmes was a whirlwind, a dust storm the likes of which he’d never seen when at war, and John’s life found itself permanently altered. He stared at the lines of a Tesco worker’s face and thought to himself, _single-divorced-mother to a toddler-sad-smiles because she feels she needs to_ , and feels the echoes of Sherlock all around him.

When he walks back into 221B Baker Street that same afternoon, a rather average day in August, and sees the familiar silhouette of Sherlock Holmes standing by the window, he set his Tesco back down with a sigh. He tosses his keys into the dish next to the microwave, puts the milk away inside the fridge, and when he turns around, Sherlock is looming over him. John leans away, eyes darting to the side, and clenches his jaw. He leans backwards against the counter and forces himself to meet a painfully blue gaze.

“Why am I not surprised?” he asks, and the words are quiet and resigned, and seem to hit Sherlock harder than any punch he could have thrown. The detective sinks to his knees at John’s feet, buries his face into a slightly softened stomach, and the two of them stand there in total silence. Eventually, John pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and rubs the tension from his body until relief bleeds over them.

It’s been three long years since Sherlock fell, and John feels every single day of it in his bones and the leg that still aches from where he’d felt the loss like a phantom limb. He sees it in the hunched line of Sherlock’s spine and the gaunt edges of his cheeks, in the way that Sherlock sleeps like he never has before—deeply and in John’s bed, curled into his own body—and finds it hard to rid himself of the sadness that has taken root inside of him. 

Sherlock, in the aftermath of their reunion, takes to using his former bedroom as a workspace and sleeps every night, without fail, next to John. 

He snores. 

Even Mycroft can’t bring a man back from the dead so easily, and one afternoon John returns from his job at the surgery just to walk in one a tense meeting between the brothers. “Alright,” he says slowly, and sheds his jacket. He takes a long, evaluating look at Mycroft, who meets him with a steady gaze. John has long since figured out that the Holmes brothers were in on this bloody fake-death conspiracy together. “Mycroft,” he nods, and turns away without waiting to hear the other man’s response. 

Something in his stomach sits heavily and he finds himself perched on the edge of his bed, staring down at the funny socks Mrs. Hudson had bought him for Christmas. John sits there and breathes, in one second and out the next, and doesn’t cry. He doesn’t get angry, or sad, or happy. He simply aches. 

Moments, hours, _days_ pass before the tapping of aristocratic shoes fades away and the bedroom door opens. Sherlock sits beside him on the bed, clad in a baggy tee and cotton pants, and curls one spindly hand over John’s own. “I’m…John, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice deep and thick in a way that is so beloved and painfully familiar. 

“I know,” John says back, and squeezes.

Lestrade punches Sherlock, probably because John didn’t and the universe figured someone ought to deck the bastard. He rants and raves about the mess left behind, about how John nearly ate a bullet on the first anniversary of Sherlock’s death—and, yes, it’s true but Mrs. Hudson _stopped him_ and John is still alive whereas Sherlock faked his own fucking death, so he can take that startled, wounded stare somewhere else, thank you very much. 

Once Lestrade’s blood pressure has gone down to a normal level and the media scrutiny has died down, Sherlock begins taking cases again. Private cases, nothing with the Yard just yet, but still enough to stimulate Sherlock’s bloody big brain. He’s not as harsh these days, not as quick to dismiss people when they come knocking on their door. There’s even one incident where, after an early dinner at Angelo’s, Sherlock’s stopped in his tracks by a small child.

The young boy has his hand firmly curled in Sherlock’s long coat, staring up at him with baleful and determined eyes. The child’s mother stands a few feet away, and John realizes with a start that it’s the same tired woman from Tesco just a few short weeks ago. 

“’Scuse me,” the boy lisps upwards, and Sherlock bends down, grinding his knee into the dirty pavement just so that they two are level. “I can’t find Hagrid.” 

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock murmurs, and gently undoes the child’s hold on his coat. He runs a thumb over toddler-soft skin on the back of the boy’s hand before flipping it palm-side up. There’s a slight abrasion and redness on the fat of his palm. “And Hagrid is…?”

“My friend,” the boy says solemnly, and the mother meets John’s eyes and mouths an apology. John’s too gob smacked by Sherlock’s behavior to do anything but wave it off with a smile.

“Of course,” Sherlock responds, equally as serious. “And, is your friend by any chance…a little doggy with light brown fur?” 

The boy’s eyes light up and he gives a gap-toothed grin, looking backwards at his mother as he babbles on excitedly about his missing stuffed toy. 

“I think,” Sherlock says, leaning in as if he’s got a secret. “Hagrid may be waiting for you at the play-park. Perhaps underneath a slide?” 

“Mum!” the boy cries, turning around. His cheeks are flushed and happy and his mother’s eyes are still tired, but soft around the edges as she curls a hand over her son’s head. “He found Hagrid!”

“Of course he did,” she says, petting at his down-soft hair. “He’s Sherlock Holmes, love.”

Sherlock stands, and if he can feel John’s bewildered gaze on his cheek, he gives no indication of it. The mother pauses, hand tightening around her purse straps. “Mr. Holmes—”

“Not a worry,” Sherlock interrupts smoothly. “Always happy to have a case. I wish you the best in your search for Hagrid.” 

The mother nods again, then passes by them with a smile and a, “Dr. Watson,” directed towards John. “See you on Saturday at the usual shop?” 

“Oh, yes,” John says absently, and reaches out to shake her hand. “Of course.”

The woman and her child disappear from his peripheral and John is too busy looking at Sherlock to care. “What the hell was that?” he asks, finally. 

Sherlock exhales slowly, staring down the street after the small family. “It’s been a long three years, John,” is all he says, voice quiet.

He turns on his heel and resumes walking. 

John follows after him, eventually.

 

~ 

Eventually, their cases expand beyond the occasional missing toy, frauds, and instances of breaking and entering. One day, the doorbell to 221B rings and when John opens the door, the face on the other side is tear streaked and determined. “Hello,” warbles the stranger, fists clenched tightly by his sides. “I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“Right, yeah,” John says, moving aside. “Just up the stairs.”

The man takes a few steps inside, but freezes in the foyer, hands still balled up. “Hello, my name is Liam Robbins. I—my husband’s missing,” he says abruptly, and his voice is tight with tears. “Owen…he went to work four days ago, and he…he never came home.” He levels John with watery green eyes. “They said Sherlock Holmes could help.”

John recognizes the lines of sadness drawn into the other man’s face, feels them traced across his own, and something in his heart settles unpleasantly down near his stomach. “He’ll help you,” he says firmly, and leads the man inside. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

They climb the first set of stairs together, and when they round the corner, Sherlock is standing in the doorway to their flat, coat on and scarf looped around his neck. Something fierce shines brightly in his eyes as he observes the hunched-up sadness of the client and the determined set of John’s jaw. “I’ll take the case.”

The man practically wilts with relief on their stairwell.

Sherlock descends the stairs, slow and with purpose. “Tell me what I need to know.” 

 

~

 

Sherlock peruses the couple’s apartment with his usual intensity, thumbing along the edges of books and checking Owen’s diary before pocketing it, and checking the internet history on the man’s laptop. Liam stands back with tense shoulders and wet eyes, and John stays by his side as a show of support. He knows too well the ache of someone you love disappearing, and even though Sherlock has been back for a while now, the wounds of his betrayal are still raw. 

Sherlock barely glances at the two of them as he taps away at his phone, presumably to Lestrade or Mycroft, and John lays a comforting hand on Liam’s shoulder. “He’s the best there is,” he says quietly. “He’ll find Owen.”

Liam purses his lips and blinks back tears, but nods nonetheless.

Sherlock’s phone beeps with a new text message, and after he reads whatever’s been sent to him, he looks up at John with a glint in his eyes. John _knows_ that glint, has seen that look an infinite amount of times: Sherlock has a lead. 

“Come along, John,” he says, pocketing his Blackberry and wrapping his coat tightly around him. “We really must be going.”

“Where to?” John says, jogging after him with a cursory nod goodbye towards Liam.

“I had Mycroft track Owen Robbins’ mobile and credit cards,” Sherlock says, in lieu of directly answering John’s question. He turns the phone’s screen towards John as they walk, and the motion is too fast for John to gain any sort of knowledge from the motion. “Owen Robbins didn’t work for anyone of particular importance, has no record of suspicious behavior, and no priors. Liam, on the other hand, works as an aide to the American ambassador. Only a small amount of pull there, but our kidnappers are, luckily, not the brightest of individuals and can’t possibly know that. It’s entirely possible they mixed up Liam and Owen, grabbed the wrong man.” 

“How,” John asks, tilting his head back briefly. “How can you _possibly_ know that?”

“Owen’s diary. He had plans written in for well over a month from now, not exactly the mark of a man who planned to disappear, thus: taken against his will. Mycroft’s security tapes and the diary both show that Owen made a stop at Liam’s work on the day he disappeared, presumably to surprise his husband with lunch, if the disgusting hearts around ‘Bring Lee Lunch!’ are any indication.” 

“But Liam never saw Owen,” John says, realization dawning on him. “So he was taken…inside the embassy building?” 

“Exactly,” Sherlock enthuses, hailing down a cab. “Coincidentally, a new security guard named Andrew Harton hasn’t showed up to work since the day Owen went missing. And guess whose credit card just showed signs of activity in the North East?” 

“Right,” John sighs, climbing into the taxi after Sherlock. “So, where are we going?” 

 

~

Two days later, John finds himself chasing down their suspect in the middle of a small town about twenty minutes outside of Newcastle. He can see the man sprinting through alleys, jostling into pedestrians, and casting furtive glances backwards as John runs after him.

The burly man, whom Sherlock positively identified as the missing security guard, darts around a tight corner. John huffs out a breath and curves after him, and receives an elbow to the face for his trouble. He goes down with a rush of air and the crunch of cartilage in his nose. Blood runs from his nostrils and down his face, pooling on the pavement where his cheek has scraped against the ground. “Fuck,” he groans, lifting himself up. A heavily booted foot connects with his ribs, sending him back towards the ground where his head connects painfully with the unrelenting concrete. 

A large, sweaty palm covers his face, clumsily plugging his nose and spread out over his mouth. The pain that sears through his face is almost enough to take his breath away, but John forces himself to stay awake. Harton is clearly trying to suffocate him, judging by the positioning of his hand and the panicked look in his beady eyes, so John makes a decision.

He plays possum.

His eyes deliberately roll backwards into his head and he forces his body to relax, letting the fight drift out of his limbs. His neck goes limp as the muscles unwind, and eventually Harton’s hand leaves his face. “Damn it,” John hears him say, the voice reedy and thinner than he would have expected. “Bloody fucking…shit.” The large hands grab John from his armpits and haul him upwards. It’s harder for him to keep his body lax, but he lets his feet drag, the scrape of his shoes loud against the pavement. 

Harton’s fetid breath is heavy and uncomfortably wet against the back of his neck and the feel of it makes a wave of nausea roll through him. The pain along his front is unrelenting and making it difficult to play dead, but John’s determination to see the case through and to reunite Owen and Liam spur him onwards. 

The sound of expensive Italian leather shoes pounding against the pavement gets louder as Sherlock gets closer, and John tenses minutely. Harton stops in his tracks.

There’s a slight pause and the sound of Sherlock’s heavy breathing, a small hitch interrupting the inhale and exhale. “John!” Sherlock shouts, voice cracked. “John, where are you?" 

Harton’s breathing gets quicker, panicked, and John knows that he’s going to have to carefully time his movement. Harton is going to be desperate, which in his experience means nothing but unnecessary bloodshed. Sherlock rounds the corner of the alleyway where Harton has John hauled up against his body. John knows he must look a sight: shirt torn and dirty, his face bruised and wet with blood still dripping from his nose and the cut on his eyebrow. It takes more effort than he would have thought to keep himself from wincing at the idea that Sherlock is seeing him this way. 

“Back off,” Harton grunts, and then there’s the press of cool, sharp steel against John’s neck. A knife, only a small pocket knife, but a knife just the same. John quickly adds this into consideration, still mentally plotting his plan of attack. 

Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose. “Harton, let him _go,_ ” he says fiercely. 

It surprises John; normally, Sherlock plays the part of the calm negotiator, deliberate with his words and body language. Though, the past is indicative of John being Sherlock’s weak spot; he still remembers that moment in Irene’s parlor, the press of a gun against his head, and the tight working of Sherlock’s jaw as he demanded for them not to shoot John.

“Not until you back _off_ ,” Harton insists again, shifting on his feet. “I don’t want no trouble." 

“ _Any_ trouble,” Sherlock snaps. “Saying you ‘don’t want no trouble’ is double negative, good _God_ it’s a miracle half the inhabitants in this country can form a sentence at all.” 

John’s mouth twitches upwards, despite his best efforts to contain the smile, and figures the game is up. Keeping his body relaxed, he opens the eye that isn’t tacky with blood, and meets Sherlock’s gaze head on. 

Sherlock’s head jolts minutely to the side, mouth opening slightly in understanding. A smile, relieved and proud, twists the edges of his lush mouth.

Harton, confused, loosens his grip on John, and that’s where he makes his mistake. John’s body snaps to life, and he grabs Harton’s wrist and wrenches it to the side until the knife falls from his hand. The bulky bodyguard grunts in pain, and John takes the opportunity to headbutt him harshly in the face.

Thank the Lord he spent most of his formative years playing Rugby, so the pain that rattles in his skull and through his own crushed nose is a distant ache. When Harton’s head launches backwards, John lets go of his wrist and punches him in the stomach, as hard as he can. Which, to be honest, is pretty damned hard. Harton doubles over with rough rush of air from his lungs, and John uppercuts him in his already bruising nose as the (much) larger man hunches over.

Harton stumbles backwards, knocking into some overturned wooden crates and falling onto his arse. John is on top of him in an instant, putting all of his weight in the forearm that he presses against Harton’s windpipe. 

The kidnapper looks completely startled, staring up at John with wild eyes. John understands; he’s a small man, himself, and while some would consider that to be a hindrance in a fight, John thinks of it as a tactical advantage. 

“For your own sake,” John pants, pushing down even harder as the man struggles beneath him. “Don’t move. I don’t feel like killing a man tonight, though I will if I have to.” 

Harton falls silent and still below, exhaustion and resignation settling into his face. “I just wanted some dosh,” he says. “Just a bit of extra cash.” 

“Yes, and kidnapping is the most appropriate method of reaching that goal,” Sherlock retorts smoothly, leg brushing against John’s shoulder. “Too bad you took the wrong man.” 

As Harton splutters, embarrassed, John squints upwards at Sherlock. “We really need to work on your timing,” he says tiredly.

Sherlock arches a brow and his mouth is still tight at the corners. “You played dead with a fair bit of talent.” 

“Yeah, well,” John shrugs, and winces at the pain that lances through his side. He smiles a bit up at his friend, hoping it will take the sting out of his next words: “I learned from the master.” 

Sherlock looks genuinely startled, and a laugh breaks out of him against his will, if the confused and surprised look that follows is any indication. John’s grin grows winder, and Sherlock gazes down at him with fondness and pride shining out of his eyes. 

They stay there, suspended in the moment, until Sherlock reminds him with a mutter that they still have a missing man to find. 

 

~

 

Liam is waiting anxiously on his doorstep when the car pulls up out front. Sherlock is the first out of the car after he pulls to a complete stop, and walks swiftly around to the other side to help the slightly battered Owen out of his seat. John, still feeling tender from his injuries, slowly lifts himself out of the passenger’s side and holds himself up with the edge of the door as he watches the couple reunite. 

Liam’s choked sob is audible, even on the busy London street, and he rushes forward to cup his husband’s face in his palms. Shaking thumbs sweep over Owen’s cheekbones as they push their foreheads together, bodies squeezing so tightly against one another that the tangle of their legs and arms becomes a blur. John smiles to himself, as much as he can with his nose and lip still bruised and aching, and when he looks up, he meets Sherlock’s gaze head on.

The detective is staring at him with that intrinsically calculating stare, coat collar up around his ears and his mouth pursed lightly. He’s looking at John with an expression that the doctor isn’t familiar with, those normally cool and calculating eyes sparking with…emotion.

John’s head tilts, questioning, and Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards. No words are exchanged between them, and Sherlock strides around to the driver’s door and slides inside. John’s less graceful body follows, glad for the cushy upholstery of Mycroft’s car. 

The drive back to their flat is silent and soothing, the gentle rumble of the journey lulling John into a sort of hypnosis, and it’s almost as if no time at all has passed before they’re pulling up outside 221B. 

“Home already?” John asks, carefully stretching his limbs. He glances over at Sherlock, who has yet to move, but whose hands are still curled tightly around the steering wheel. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment or two, and when he speaks, his voice is like the distant rumble of thunder. “What you did, in the alleyway—it was. Good.” His eyes slide over to John. “I was impressed. You were very believable.”

“I’m…glad?” John tries.

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock snaps, and turns in his seat. “I…it was good, yes, even if your breathing pattern didn’t match that of an unconscious man.”

“Are you nitpicking my ability to pretend to be knocked out?”

“Oh, don’t act so _surprised,_ ” Sherlock bites, and edges closer. “Anyway, that’s not the point!”

John sighs, exasperated, and casts a longing glance toward the door to their flat. “What, exactly, is the bloody point, Sherlock?

Sherlock’s angular jaw works itself for a few seconds, unwilling to answer. John shakes his head and makes to reach for the door handle. A mere millisecond later, Sherlock has pale fingers curled around his wrist. “I was…afraid.”

John blinks once, twice. “What?” 

“Afraid, _damn it,_ John. Harton had you, bloodied and apparently unconscious, and while he didn’t have a history of violence, he was an utter moron – which is even more dangerous. For a second, I didn’t know, I didn’t _know_ if you would wake up. Head injuries that result in more than a few seconds of unconsciousness are traumatic or fatal, and I didn’t know.” 

“Alright, Sherlock, calm down,” John soothes. “I’m fine. A bit banged up, but fine. I haven’t left you yet, what makes you think I can get rid of you that easily?” 

Sherlock stares at him in the way he does whenever he finds humanity unbearable, and then he’s reaching for John’s head with those pale, thin fingers, and pushing their mouths together with painful, concussive force. Their mouths stay that way, hard and unmoving with Sherlock breathily heavily through his nose and onto John’s face. 

John’s hands flounder by his sides, unsure of where to go, but before he can figure out a place, Sherlock is pulling back, his face flushed. He looks nervous and not a little bit exasperated, and John’s mouth is still open and the cracked corner of his lips is starting to sting. “Sorry, what?” is all he manages to say in response.

Sherlock’s cool exterior is firmly back in place as he undoes his seatbelt and opens the car door. “Honestly, John, if you haven’t figured out ‘what’ by now, then I haven’t done your intelligence justice with my tutelage.”

“Tutelage? Sherlock, what the hell—” 

He’s silenced with another hard kiss, and then Sherlock is rolling out of the car. “Come along, John.” 

John rubs a finger across the tingling paper-thin skin of his lips, raw from the kiss and the blows he’d received from Andrew Harton. He watches the familiar twist of Sherlock’s coattails as he walks through the door and turns, arching an eyebrow at John. 

John sighs and undoes his seatbelt, climbing slowly out of the car. In a flash, he thinks backwards to the months without Sherlock where he was left desolate, alone, and how much of his bloody life is at risk if this new development in their relationship doesn’t work out. He has to pause, there on the pavement, and wonder if it’s worth it to make that leap – if it’s worth this massive step.

His mouth tingles even as his lips draw up into a smile. 

“Are you coming?” Sherlock demands, nose drawn high into the air but his weight shifting on his feet. 

“Don’t I always?” John asks, rolling his eyes with fond exasperation.

He takes the step forward.

 

 


End file.
